The Friday Poem on 18/02/22
We chose Carla Scarano D’Antonio’s poem to be our Friday Poem this week because it’s such a beautiful exploration of — and meditation on — the colour blue. It takes us from childhood memories of endless summer holidays to a tour of the various shades and sources of blue found in the world, and beyond, and delves into the meanings with which we imbue them. The language is spare and measured, the imagery is evocative, and the poem leaves us feeling in awe of the beauty of this vibrant and exhilarating world.
The colour blue
The stark blue sky, solid in summer at the camping site in Ostia countryside. It was always blue, day
after day with sporadic transparent white clouds. We took it for granted like the rising of the sun.
Mum, my sister and I at Castelfusano. Dad turned up only on weekends. The caravan was parked on a
green patch, approximately five metres per seven. We cycled in the white paths inside the wired
borders, no trespassing. We made and unmade friends, had swims in the vast swimming pool, the blue
tiles matching the sky, the dazzling surface. Day after day after day, we played.
Blue butterflies are not blue and there is no blue pigment in blue irises, only lack of melanin. The
colour for boys was the colour of girls in the past, it might change again.
The Lapis lazuli pigment in the robe of the Virgin Mary is more precious than gold. Only for her, the
The turquoise tiles of the Blue Mosque, blizzard blue, cerulean, zooming in the outer space of the Blue Planet.
The indigo turban wrapping the head of the Saharan free folk. The azure hallucination of the Italian
national colour. The torment of the blues, mourning the self that keeps moving.
Does the blue change anything? Denim and blue bells, navy and aquamarine, woad, blau sein are said
to be naïve and alcoholic. Blue volts of electrocution.
The ultrablue sky, the wild blue pool, the starry night.
There is so little authentic blue in nature scattered all over in small waves. The divine, sad blue.